The frigid trench
by Nova-chan
Summary: Sherlock is badly hurt. And alone. And incapacitated.
1. Chapter 1

Marill: Another kink meme fill! (it's a wip that I plan to be finished with very soon ^^) It's basically Sherlock-whumping using six random words, which are: antidisestablishmentarianist, mushroom, wine, carnation, precipice, and shoelace. Enjoy!

/

Sherlock rapped on his keyboard, sending four emails off and instant messaging simultaneously.

John entered, a harrowed expression on his face. "Sherlock, why do you still have the shoelaces from Carl Powers' shoes?"

"It's an experiment," Sherlock answered mechanically, as he informed a woman that he would not be taking up her request to search for her missing earrings. That they were most likely in her teenage daughter's ears at the moment, the daughter of course, trying to look older to get into a bar.

John sighed at the habitual response. "What kind of experiment?"

"I'm testing the potency of the botulinum toxin in regards to its incubation and dormancy over the last twenty years." Sherlock closed his laptop and turned to face John. "Problem with that?"

"That depends," John said, scratching his arm, nervously. "What are you testing it on?"

Sherlock smiled. "Just some blood cells…for now."

Somewhat satisfied that neither his nor Sherlock's health was in immediate peril, John nodded. "Right. Do you have anything on?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered, gathering up his greatcoat. "I'm meeting Lestrade at the scene of an auto accident. It seems that the driver drove it off the edge of a steep overhang, yet somehow managed to wind up in the boot of the car." Squeezing nimble fingers into his black gloves, he asked, "Are you ready?"

"Oh, no, sorry," John said, flushing. "I was actually going to have Sarah come over. Just wanted to know if you'd be clearing out, that's all."

Sherlock looked perplexed for a moment before retaining his stony composure. "Right. Well, do give her my best." He stalked out of the room and shut the door. "And don't wait up for me!" he called, descending the stairs.

/

Sherlock arrived at the embankment off the main road before Lestrade did. The resulting phone call to Lestrade's office had informed him that a potential bomb threat was holding the officers' attention, and that Sherlock should have a look around while he waited for them.

He looked closely at the tire tracks that led to the precipice over which the car had plummeted. He took a picture with his phone of a particular incriminating stretch of the tracks.

He followed the trail to the edge of the cliff, looking down at the car in the thick forest trench. He spotted the blue acura, halted in its decent by a broad sessile oak. Sherlock took out his Blackberry once more to snap a photo of the car before trying to map out the best way to trek down into the ravine.

After that, things seemed to happen in reverse order. He found himself falling down the sharp ledge, scraping himself against rocks and bruising himself like a peach against the harsh impacts he was making. It was only after he became aware of falling that he felt the wound on the right side of his head. Some short time after that, he heard the gunshot crack through the air, the shot that had struck him and made him pitch over the edge of the cliff. He was numb for the entirety of his fall down into the ravine, aware of the rocks and trees banging into him, but not really conscious of the effect they were having.

Sherlock finally rolled to a stop at the point that the hill sloped levelly. His brain managed to compute his situation, despite the fog of injuries swarming around it. He had just been shot in the head, just grazed, but obviously a frightening concept. He was awake, which was a terrific sign that he wasn't too badly hurt, although his ankles, ribs and arms seemed to dispute that. Suddenly a cascade of liquid poured over his right eye. He squeezed the eye shut and touched his fingers to the liquid, pulling back to discover that it was blood.

It was probably a good idea to stop his gunshot wound from bleeding out, regardless if it was minor. That particular area of the body was notorious for profuse bleeding, and dammit that was his Ionly/I white shirt…

Sherlock ripped part of his pant leg and pressed the fabric to the side of his head. He lay back across the damp earth and gazed sideways at his now uncovered ankle. It was twisted, growing enormous and frightfully dark. The other one was assuredly in the same state, if the level of pain was any indication.

Unfortunately for him, he had dropped his mobile somewhere along the drop. It also didn't bode well that it was growing dark out, and there was someone with a gun out there who wanted him dead.

It was no use trying to climb back up the hill in Sherlock's condition. His current stock of injuries included a gunshot wound to the head, two twisted ankles, battered ribcage, a broken middle finger on his left hand and a sprained elbow, among a whole host of bleeding scrapes and blackening bruises. The head wound had at least stopped bleeding, but was very tender at a certain point, as if some fragment of something was still embedded in there. He was getting cold, starting to shiver and ache in the dying light.

He wondered how far up the hill his phone was. It may be possible to reach that or throw something up there that would cause it to fall…if he knew where it was…

He froze when he heard footsteps rustling the crunchy leaves a few dozen metres away. "Shit, Matt, what the hell were you thinking?" a panicky voice demanded.

"You know who that is, don't you?" another less panicked voice yelled back.

"Course I know who it is, you git! It's Sherlock bleedin' Holmes!"

Well, they certainly had the bleeding part right.

"That's why I shot 'im!" the second voice exclaimed. "If he's lookin' into this, we'll get caught for sure!"

"And you thought killing him would throw the bobbies off our trail? Now they'll be sure to find us!"

The voices were almost upon him. Sherlock saw no better choice than to play dead and hope that they wouldn't try to finish him off. He certainly was in no condition to try overpowering them.

"That's some fall he took," the first voice commented. "Bet if he wasn't dead from the shot, the fall did him in."

"Cor blimey…" the second man muttered.

Sherlock had slowed his breath to minimal movements of his lower abdomen, making sure that his facial features were deadly still. He felt a foot probing at his side, digging into injured ribs. The man made a movement to stoop down next to him, feel his pulse perhaps, when an electronic beep sounded from a couple of metres away.

"The hell was that?" the man said, returning to his full height, forgetting about Sherlock.

The first man answered from a little distance. "His mobile. Must've dropped it when he was falling."

"Think we could sell it?"

"I don't see why not…"

"Let's get back to the truck before any of his pig friends show up."

Sherlock didn't think that it was very likely that Lestrade would be coming to look at the scene when it was so dark out. The beep of his phone was probably an apology for not showing up. He had probably gotten distracted and decided to drive out to the cliff in the morning.

Sherlock almost stopped his assailants to ask them to take him with them. Almost.


	2. Chapter 2

A bottle of very expensive Bordeaux wine, a romantic comedy, and about a dozen compliments throughout the evening, and John still ended up sleeping on his own sofa. Of course, he'd given Sarah the bed. You couldn't very well ask the woman you were trying to sleep with to bunk out on the scratchy sofa. Why did she have this inclination to drive him mad between her flirty touches and her refusal to even share a bedroom?

John had momentarily considered taking over Sherlock's bed, since him saying "Don't wait up" usually meant that he'd be gone until daylight sometime. But, knowing John's luck, it'd be the one night that Sherlock came home at a decent time and actually wanted to go to sleep.

John checked his phone one last time before pulling up his blankets and trying to go to sleep. The gentle sound of raindrops hitting the window soothed him.

/

Sherlock had been sleeping, arms wrapped around his waist, when he was woken up by the rain. Fat droplets splashed in his face and he reached up with his good arm to block them from landing in his eyes. The water mixed in with the dried blood caked on the side of his head, causing a sickening coppery smell that made him nauseous.

There was a thick tree about ten metres away from him. Sherlock moved slightly in its direction, dragging his body by one arm, before sharp pains all over his body cried out, jolting him to a stop.

He knew that he had to protect his open head wound from mixing with the dirt and water all around him, so he painstakingly pulled off his greatcoat and covered his face with it. His arms and torso shivered at the loss of the little warmth the coat had been giving them and he struggled to find a way to pull his left arm under the coat without agitating his sprained elbow.

The rain soaked through Sherlock's pants and thin white shirt, so icy that his nausea went away and was replaced with an aching coldness that he could feel in his bones.

Sherlock began to shudder violently, unable to stop his entire body from shaking to try to regain some warmth. The shivering jarred many bruises and other injuries and made him aware of a headache that he didn't know he had. Eventually, the darkness claimed him again.

/

Cold. So incredibly cold. It was all he could focus on. His body was shivering as he breached consciousness, squinting in the sunlight, so thankful for the warmth the day would bring. Sherlock looked at the wet ground in front of his face. Where was his coat? Blown away by the wind perhaps? Little mushrooms had sprouted up all along the ground. Earthworms were stranded on the rocks.

Where was John? John should be making coffee about now.

Sherlock tried calling John's name, barely able to get a word past his sore throat. He abruptly stopped himself. No, stupid. He was outside. John was back at the flat. No one was making coffee out in the forest.

Sherlock wondered at the time. What if Lestrade never came back to the crime scene? He would surely die out there, alone and cold, if Lestrade didn't return.

He watched in agony as the sun disappeared behind a cloud. Sherlock shuddered, his teeth snapping together. He rolled onto his side, bringing his sodden knees up to his chest to try and curl into himself. He disregarded any complaint of pain his body may have given him. All his pains were just pinpricks and needles to him now, so much of his body had gone numb.

Sherlock slumped into the forest floor, unable to stay awake any longer.

/

A.N. Blargag: Erm, I would have PM-ed you, but you have that disabled somehow…anyway, I wanted to apologize for offending you, I certainly had only good intentions when I wrote this. No one has ever called me out on not being an English-first speaker, so I thought I usually did pretty well. But, truthfully, English is my second language since I was 15. I tried to base that character's accent and manner of speaking off of the cab driver from PINK. Also, I used an English phrase-book, which I guess is now outdated? So, again, I really am sorry if I offended anyone with my lack of knowledge about the language. I can change the dialogue in the previous chapter if you like. I will try to be more careful in the future. : )

A.N. Part two: My dear friend Pennies_for_eyes drew this amazing art to go along with this story. Check it out! wwwDOTtolkienfanartDOTcom/sherlockholmes/sherlock1DOTjpg


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade pulled his car onto the curb near the steep drop off. Donovan and Anderson were following behind him along with a couple of constables. The detective inspector checked his mobile once again as he exited the car. Still no response from Sherlock. Typical. It certainly looked as though Lestrade wouldn't be getting any help on this case.

"Ok, Donovan and Vorhies, you two stay here and make sure the area is secure. Anderson, you and Clark follow me down here. And try not to fall," Lestrade ordered. "Anderson, got your camera?"

Anderson hefted his camera bag for Lestrade to observe. Lestrade nodded and led the other two down the steep slope, which was made worse by the slick rainfall from the night.

Clark was acclimated to hiking, so he had little difficulty traversing down the hill. He looked around at the waterlogged trees and puddles of mud all across the forest floor. He squinted when an unusual shape caught his eye. It looked like a man, sprawled out on the ground a couple dozen metres down at the bottom of the hill.

"Sir," Clark said, "I think I see someone over there." Clark raced ahead of Anderson and Lestrade a little, to get a better look. He could make out the man's chest, face and arms at this point. "Sir, it's a man. Looks like he's badly hurt."

Lestrade scrambled down the hill just a little quicker at this new development. He recognized the pale skin and lanky body even from that distance. "Jesus, it's Sherlock," he whispered. He followed Clark at a full gallop toward the injured man. "Anderson, call for an ambulance!" he shouted over his back. Anderson hastened to reach his phone.

Lestrade knelt next to Sherlock, indifferent to the mud soaking into his pants. "Sherlock," he said, taking in the tattered and soaked clothes, the head wound, the bruises and cuts covering him head to toe, and his dark, puffy ankles. "Sherlock," he tried again, getting no response even when he gently shook his shoulder. The young man was curled up on his side, probably for warmth more than comfort, as he was missing his ever-present black coat. Lestrade looked up at Clarky. "Help me roll him onto his back, so I can check him out a little better," he said.

Clarky nodded, bracing his hand against Sherlock's neck and right arm for support. Lestrade delicately pushed against Sherlock's right knee and chest to roll him out flat. Lestrade sighed, absorbing the full extent of the damage to his friend. Yes, what else would he call Sherlock?

Sherlock groaned, an awful, painful noise. "John," he mumbled. "Get onto…hold off…get the jacket." Sherlock's speech was badly slurred and very quiet.

"Anderson!" Lestrade called, spotting the man who was panicking on the middle of the hill. "Get some blankets out of the cars, all of them!"

Anderson quickly obeyed, happy to have a task that would help.

"Sherlock," Lestrade tried again. "Can you hear me?"

"Where's my coat?" Sherlock asked, in a feeble, broken voice.

"I was gonna ask you that," Lestrade replied, smoothing Sherlock's wet curls away from his face. The inspector looked around the area, glancing quickly, but didn't see Sherlock's coat. "Don't worry, we'll get you warmed up soon."

Clarky meanwhile, had taken Sherlock's pulse. "Sir, his heart rate is down to forty-five. He's got severe hypothermia. If we don't get him to a hospital, keep him awake, he'll die within an hour or two."

Lestrade's own heart rate quickened, as he realized that Sherlock had stopped moving and talking. "Sherlock!" he said, roughly shaking his shoulders now. "Wake up! Sherlock!"

"Sir! You have to be more careful, or you could stop his heart altogether!" Clarky warned.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered, like some possessed creature, but he didn't respond otherwise.

Anderson came running up to them, several blankets in his arms. "I've got the blankets, here," he announced,

Clarky took command. "Lay one out on the ground, Lestrade. We have to get him out of his wet clothes."

Lestrade laid out a brown, wool blanket and spread it carefully across the wet earth. "Anderson, call John Watson. Use my phone. Tell him to meet us at the hospital." Lestrade handed his phone over to a very eager Anderson.

Clarky had cut open Sherlock's button-up shirt, too impatient to take it off carefully. He did the same with his pants, leaving Sherlock with only his shorts for protection momentarily. Together, Clarky and Lestrade lifted Sherlock onto the wool blanket before piling all the other ones around him. Lestrade took his own coat off and wrapped it around Sherlock's head. He looked to the top of the hill, bidding for the ambulance to get there sooner.

/

Marill: OH NOES!

Didja like how I used Clarky in my story? ^^

Also, thank everyone for your support! It made me feel loads better and spurred me to post more faster! Thankies! ^^


	4. Chapter 4

John Watson knew that it was frowned upon to go running through a hospital hallway, but he was battling the overwhelming fear that he would be too late, that Sherlock would be…after all, Anderson had not sounded positive on the phone. John had never heard such a concerned tone come out of Anderson's mouth. That's when he knew that it was serious.

Lestrade greeted him, grimly in the waiting room. "It isn't looking too good, John," Lestrade told him, letting the effect of his words wash over John's already pale face. "He stopped breathing on the ambulance ride here and they had to tube him."

"What the hell happened?" John asked, not a single hint of anger or worry making it into his voice as he collapsed, defeated, into a vinyl chair.

Lestrade took a pause before he answered. "Best we can tell, he fell off that cliff, lost his phone, and couldn't get out of the trench. He managed to lose his jacket somehow, got rained on, and stayed out there like that all night." He looked at John, trying to read his vacant expression. "Took a bullet to the side of his head, too."

John's face was shocked back to life. "He what?"

"Just a graze," Lestrade amended.

"When can we see him?" John asked, gazing toward the automatic doors that led to the emergency ward.

"We can see him right away," said a familiar voice behind them. John turned quickly and saw Mycroft walking through the row of chairs. He walked on past them and straight up to the doors, swiping an electronic card through the keypad. "Are you going to join me?" he asked, his usual charm still intact.

John and Lestrade exchanged a glance before swiftly following Mycroft like a couple of sheep looking to be fed.

/

I'm sorry this is so short, everyone! But, it's just some kind of transitory chapter. ^^


	5. Chapter 5

Watson noticed all of the devices sticking into his friend and catalogued them immediately: trach tube taped to the side of his face, attached to a humidifier to warm the air they were supplying him; irrigation tube stuck in between two of his ribs on the left side; IV to replenish lost fluids and nutrients; heart monitor.

Lestrade hung back near the entrance to the intensive care room. Mycroft, receiving a skeptical glance from only one nurse, set up camp with his laptop at the head of the bed.

John stood at Sherlock's side, ironically frozen himself. Sherlock was positively blue, especially on his face and chest. John took stock of the visible injuries that hadn't been covered up yet. The gunshot wound at Sherlock's temple was daunting. Looked like whoever had done it was a terrible shot. The young man had cryo pedis on his right hand, probably on his left too, but that had already been wrapped up tightly in bandages. Sherlock had an array of bruises and cuts on his chest and arms, all of which had already been thoroughly cleaned. Before John could observe anything further, a nurse pulled a blanket up to Sherlock's neck. Two more blankets were placed on top, and as soon as they had bandaged up the bullet wound, the nurses put a knitted cap on Sherlock's head.

"We'll be needing a private room," Mycroft said to the nurse closest to him. "Eighth floor would be splendid."

John wrinkled his forehead, unsure what made the eighth floor so special. However, the nurse nodded obediently and left the room to make the necessary preparations.

John placed his hands reverently on the bed's safety rail, afraid to even touch Sherlock in his unstable condition. John had seen patients in far worse conditions that he had been able to touch and move around and poke with needles and surgical knives. But, Sherlock…Sherlock was his friend, his closest friend. And he looked like he might just break if someone touched him.

/

The private room was spacious, warm, and had a larger bed than John had ever seen at the hospital. He began to wonder if Mycroft had the ability to go to restricted floors from the elevator. Lestrade left during the transfer, apologizing and saying something about paperwork.

John reclined in the comfy armchair next to Sherlock's bed, watching him lie there, peaceful, so still. Mycroft had switched over to his mobile, probably texting prime ministers and preventing nuclear war with his thumbs.

Nurses were in and out of the room, checking Sherlock's temperature, changing out hot water bottles, adjusting the IV, checking the breathing and irrigation tubes. They were able to remove the breathing apparatus after Holmes stabilized and began to cough and choke around the plastic tube. An hour into the stay in the new room, Sherlock began to shiver and mumble.

John sat up straight as soon as he noticed the slight movements his friend was making. "Sherlock?" he said. John walked to the edge of the bed and placed his hand on the blankets above Sherlock's arm. Sherlock shuddered, his teeth starting to clack fiercely. John sighed in relief, exchanging a glance with Mycroft. "He's getting better," he said, and Mycroft acknowledged the good news with a nod. John pulled the blankets tighter around Sherlock's neck, trying to make him more comfortable.

Keeping up an encouraging hum of words, John buzzed for the nurse's station, to alert them to the change in Sherlock's condition. He began rubbing Sherlock's arms through the blanket, to heat him up with the friction.

Two nurses came into the room, and John looked up to greet them. "He's coming out of it," he told them, breathlessly. "He started to shake and try to talk just a little while ago."

While John was facing the nurses, Sherlock growled and threw the blankets off. "Stop," he said, his voice slow and quiet.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John asked, facing him once more. He pulled the blankets back up around Sherlock's chest protectively.

Sherlock thrashed with his right arm, trying to throw off the blankets again. He opened his eyes, dull with haze and fatigue. "It's t-too hot," he complained, although he shivered violently. "I w-want to get in the car…"

"He's confused," John said aloud, although he knew that the nurses and certainly Mycroft knew that already. Sherlock tossed his head on the pillow, trying to throw off John's grip on the blanket with his shoulders.

One nurse moved to the bed and checked the vital signs. "His heart rate is looking much better," she mentioned. "Mr. Holmes, lie still so I can get you raised up."

Sherlock snapped at the nurse's hand on his arm. The frightened woman backed up quickly, but was soon joined by the other nurse.

"Sherlock," said John, "calm down and lie still."

Sherlock attempted to sit up, his movements looked drunk and hesitant. "Get off!" he cried, wrestling with John briefly. He yelped when he tugged painfully at his IV.

"We're going to have to restrain him," said the initial nurse, turning to get more help.

"That's not necessary!" John called after her, even as he was struggling to pin a very combative and confused Sherlock to the bed. "Sherlock, please, just calm down!" At this point, Sherlock was trying to throw his leg over the side of the bed, pulling at the irrigation tube in his chest.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled. Everyone in the room froze at the authoritative tone. "Stop it. Now." Mycroft's voice brooked no argument or rebuttal. Sherlock looked in the direction of his brother, not quite finding him with his sight before he lay back into the pillows and closed his eyes. "There you go, Sherlock," Mycroft said, in a softened voice. In a tender fraternal display, Mycroft smoothed the blankets back up to Sherlock's neck and resettled the knit cap firmly on his brother's head.

"Um…thanks," John said, not knowing what else to say. Mycroft just nodded and went back to typing on his phone.


	6. Chapter 6

Initially Sherlock showed signs of improvement. He became less aggressive over the next two days, even allowing John and Mycroft to sit him up and fuss over the multiple tubes and blankets around him. John was concerned that he still seemed incredibly drowsy and didn't speak much. Any sentences he tried to string together were garbled and nonsensical. He often became quite agitated whenever a strange nurse or doctor came in to do something to him, and John would normally jump up and offer to carry out the procedure himself.

On the third night of Sherlock's stay in the hospital, his body temperature had warmed up a shade away from normalcy. The doctor on Sherlock's case was confident that if his condition continued to stabilize, he would be tentatively released on the next afternoon. Mycroft had excused himself on the second night to take care of some official business, driven back to his work with the faith that his brother was safely on the mend.

John was sleeping on the fold-out sofa bed when Sherlock was shocked awake by a terrible pain in his lower back. The pain was intense, and as he became more aware, he felt chest pains and relentless nausea. Sherlock tried to get his wavering breaths under control as he reached out for John. His friend's name came out as barely a whisper against the tightness in his chest and the pain in his abdomen. He pressed the call button instead, before laying back against the bed, exhausted by his efforts.

A young, tiny nurse came hurrying into the room. "Mr. Holmes?" she asked, softly. Her trained eyes immediately locked on the orange-red fluid seeping into the catheter bag. Sherlock coughed and writhed in the bed, trying to pull the blankets up over his shuddering arms.

The nurse went to the bedside, and pressed the call button again, summoning another nurse while she took a sample of blood from Sherlock's arm. The second nurse, slightly taller, came in to assist the smaller nurse.

"Page, I need you to get hold of the on-call," said the first nurse. "We've got serious kidney problems. I'm going to get this sample to the lab."

Page nodded, but lingered for a moment, seeing the pain on Sherlock's face. Knowing how he had reacted to her before, Page went over and woke up the patient's doctor friend, who had scarcely left the room in three days.

John sat up with a fright, fearing the worst, coming out of a dream where Sherlock was freezing to death in the trench. He hurried over to the bed where the small nurse was finishing up with the sample. "What's going on?" he asked, taking in Sherlock's pale face, his struggles to breathe, and the blood in the catheter.

"May be kidney failure," the nurse said. "Hopefully just an infection. Could be pneumonia too."

John sidestepped her and got to the other side of the bed. "Sherlock, let's sit you up," he pleaded, trying to hoist Sherlock up to a sitting position so he could clear his lungs. The nurse rushed out of the room, taking her samples with her. Sherlock managed to cough before he collapsed against John's arm, completely exhausted.

John tried smoothing out the pillows and blankets and tubes around his friend, before he was startled that Sherlock had slumped unconscious.

/

Marill: Short update, yes! But I really really hurt my thumb at work. (sad face) I actually sliced through my thumbnail with a butchering knife, really high up near the cuticle…so it's kind of difficult to type…but I have some time off for brainstorming anyway! Thanks for reading though! Sorry it's short. ^^


	7. Chapter 7

John sat by Sherlock's side while the doctors and nurses were testing Sherlock's blood. Occasionally, he would grasp Sherlock's limp hand and give it a squeeze. Sherlock remained in a deep sleep, away from all the pains his body was experiencing.

An hour later, an older man in khaki pants and a button up shirt entered the hospital room, holding Sherlock's file. "Dr. Watson?" he said, greeting John with a handshake. John nodded affirmatively. "I'm Dr. Keller." He glanced at the charts. "According to our tests, Sherlock has a simple kidney infection. We'll add a course of antibiotics and that should clear up in a few days. But…" He pulled out a stethoscope and placed it on Sherlock's chest. "I do want to do a chest x-ray to rule out a pleural effusion, instead of treating him for pneumonia right away."

John nodded, although Dr. Keller wasn't looking at him. Looking at his frightfully pale and banged up friend, John felt immensely guilty. He should have been with Sherlock when he went off to check out the car crash. Instead, he had opted for a night in with Sarah. John laughed at himself, wondering if he should just _always_ be with Sherlock to make sure none of these things happened to him.

Dr. Keller straightened up and put his stethoscope away. "Sounds like pneumonia," he confirmed, "but we'll do the x-ray just to make sure."

John sighed. "All right…thanks."

Dr. Keller gave John a smile and left the room, tucking Sherlock's chart under his arm briskly.

Five minutes later, John was getting a call. He stepped out of the room, seeing that it was Lestrade. He lingered in the hallway for a moment before someone on hospital staff told him that he would have to take the call outside.

"Sorry about that, Inspector," he apologized, walking through the sliding door to the bench area. "Go on."

"We found some footprints at the crash that weren't there before, that weren't Sherlock's," Lestrade said, on the other end of the line. "That wasn't too much to go on, but then Clarky, bless him, found a bank receipt on the side of the hill." John sighed deeply in relief and anticipation. Lestrade continued, "We traced the receipt back to one of the bastards and pulled up his debit card transactions. Shockingly, he bought a plane ticket two days ago. Plane left this morning headed for South Africa. We've got officers waiting at the airport to apprehend him and his accomplice."

"Great," John said. "Thank God. Tell Clarky I said thanks to him too."

"Will do," Lestrade replied. There was silence for a few moments. Then,

"How's Sherlock doing?"

John swallowed and took a pause of his own before responding. "He's got a kidney infection, probably pneumonia too."

Lestrade gave a defeated chuckle. "Typical of him. Can't do anything halfway, can he?" He attempted to lighten John's disposition with a joke.

John actually smiled. "Yeah. Always has to be the center of attention."

"Keep me updated on him, if you don't mind," Lestrade requested. "I'll let you know what happens on my end."

"Sure thing," John answered.

John managed to wake Sherlock when he shut the door to the private hospital room. Sherlock groaned and blinked his eyes in the fluorescent brightness of the room.

"Hey, mate," John said, going to his friend's side. He leaned over the bed and saw Sherlock's flushed face. Two days ago, Sherlock had been shivering for hours. Now he had developed a low-grade fever. "How're you feeling?"

Sherlock squinted and held his side, moaning as the sensations of pain became more tangible. He looked at John's face, confusion and a dazed expression clouding his normally astute features. "Me duele…" he said. John leaned closer, straining to hear his friend's murmurs. "Me duele el estomago," Sherlock said. His verbal mind was operating in Spanish, brought on by some combination of trauma, fatigue and illness. Sherlock turned toward the window and cringed, a part of him realizing that something was very wrong with his brain. "Estoy herido…"

John knew very little Spanish, mostly bits and pieces from conversations, books and television. He was confused by Sherlock's garbled and feverish speech. "Sherlock, what are you talking about? I can't understand you," he said softly. John pulled a chair behind himself and sat close to Sherlock's side. He placed his hand cautiously on Sherlock's forearm below a nasty-looking scrape.

"Ayudame, John," Sherlock pleaded. His eyes were glassy, ringed with dark, exhausted circles. "Estoy enfermo…estoy tan enfermo…" He coughed, causing himself to go into a struggle for breath. John murmured soothing words and rubbed Sherlock's back, trying to help him settle back down. Sherlock eventually laid back, wheezing and gasping for air.

John swallowed, feeling pretty useless to his friend. "It's going to be all right, Sherlock. You just need to rest and let the hospital take care of you. They're going to get you started on some meds really soon." Sherlock looked at John, breathing heavily around the congestion in his lungs. "I'll stay right here with you, Sherlock," John promised.

"Yo quiero ir a casa," Sherlock moaned. His leg twitched involuntarily and he suddenly cried out with pain. "Ay! Mi tobillo…ah…mis tobillos," he said, moving his other leg as well. He reached with his mostly uninjured right arm down the length of his leg, grasping with difficulty at the tangled blankets at the foot of the bed.

John determined the cause of Sherlock's struggles. "Your ankles?" he asked. He stood and helped Sherlock adjust the blankets so that his legs were no longer tightly confined.

"Gracias…" Sherlock sighed with some measure of relief.

"You're welcome." John nodded, settling back into his chair.

Sherlock pulled carefully at one of the pillows behind him. When he had finally gotten it loose, he placed the pillow on the right side of his stomach, pressing it firmly against the pain. He hissed in momentary agony before turning to John, a look of pure torment crossing his face. "John…por favor sacame de aqui…"

John frowned. "Sherlock, I don't understand…" He wasn't able to finished his thought because a man wearing scrubs entered the room.

"Hi," the man said. John assumed he was one of Sherlock's many nurses. "Time for your chest x-ray, Mr. Holmes."

John assisted the nurse in removing the heart monitor and bp cuff attached to Sherlock. Everything else could travel with the bed. John watched as the nurse fidgeted with Sherlock's IV for a moment, to insure that it was still in good placement and stable enough for a little travel. He and John pulled the stops of the bed's wheels and began to roll Sherlock toward the door. The nurse threw up a polite hand when John started to follow him. "Sorry. Hospital staff only." The nurse smiled. "Don't worry, I'll bring him right back…"

Sherlock's eyes had begun to droop and he felt his brain getting foggier and less coherent. "Unngh...John...attend. Je n'aime pas ceci. John, l'empeche-toi.  
Arretez..." His voice grew weaker and less sure as he was wheeled out into the hallway.

"Come on, Mr. Holmes. It's gonna be all right," the nurse assured him.

John sank back into his chair, confused. Had Sherlock just switched over to French? He would have to speak with the doctor as soon as he saw him again.

/

Marill: Ok, I know that was probly confusing, and not too correct, so here is what I was trying to get Sherlock to say:

_Me duele_ "I'm hurt…"  
_Me duele el estomago_ "My stomach hurts…"  
_Estoy herido_ "I'm hurt/sick…"  
_Ayudame, John. Estoy enfermo. Estoy tan enfermo_ "Help me, John. I'm sick. I'm so sick…"  
_Yo quiero ir a casa. Ay! Mi tobillo…ah, mis tobillos._ "I want to go home. Ouch! My ankle…ah, my ankles…"  
_John, por favor sacame de aqua_ "John, please get me out of here…"  
_John…attendez. Quelque chose ne va pas. Je n'aime pas cela. John, l'arreter. Arreter_ "John, wait. Something is amiss. I don't like this. John, stop. Stop…"

I did take two years of Spanish and one year of French. Also a year of conversational Japanese, and I was born Swedish…so one might say I'm a connoisseur of language, seeing as how I've pretty much fooled everyone into thinking I was born English. XD Only once has anyone ever suspected online that I was not a native English-speaker, and it happened quite recently, so I thought I would divulge my secret. I've been speaking English since I was 15, and I'm a grad student in English now, so I think I'm doing all right…Microsoft Word helps a lot…anyway, tl;dr I am not perfect at Spanish or French, so please don't kill me for da mistakes! I still love you all! ^^ 3

\

AH! Update: thank you so much Dayja, for the French help. I wasn't too sure about my translation, but yours is much nicer. ^^


	8. Chapter 8

John lost track of time, checking his email and job postings from his phone. He was suddenly aware of a stealthy presence, followed by the clacking of heels. John closed out his email and was surprised to see Mycroft standing in the doorway. Behind Mycroft was his assistant, who called herself Anthea, carrying a small bunch of pink flowers.

"Hello, Mycroft," John said. He almost asked him what he was doing there, but thought that was rude. He was Sherlock's brother after all. Thankfully, Mycroft answered John's unspoken question.

"So, Sherlock has pneumonia now. And an internal infection," Mycroft tsked. He stayed framed in the doorway, Anthea standing to one side. "I should have known better than to let him stay in a _public_ hospital." Mycroft practically spat the word "public". "Even with the private room, you really can't expect the staff here to be on the same level as the staff at one of the more exclusive institutions."

John was momentarily baffled. "How did you know about the pneumonia?" he wondered. Mycroft's eyes crinkled in a slight smile. "Oh…you…wait, have you got my phone bugged?" John balked.

Mycroft winked. " 'Bugged' is such an ugly little word," he mused.

John decided to let it go for the moment. He could always buy a new phone later. "Ok, what's with the flowers then?"

Mycroft turned to Anthea and heeded her explanation. "They're pink carnations. They stand for happiness, health, thankfulness and remembrance," she recited. "They're also my favorite color." She smiled and briefly inhaled the scent of the bouquet.

Mycroft turned back to John. "So, Dr. Watson, where is my brother now?"

John thought he saw a flicker of concern on Mycroft's face and sought to alleviate it. "He's just getting a chest x-ray. His doc wanted to rule out a pleural effusion."

"Ah. Then we will just wait for him to get back," said Mycroft, settling into a chair.

Mycroft and Anthea, after setting the flowers on the bedside table, went straight to typing on their phones. Whether to each other or to someone else, John had no idea, but he soon followed suit and went back to his email.

All three looked up when Dr. Keller entered the room. "Where's Sherlock?" the doctor asked. "They're ready for him in radiology…is he in the bathroom?" Dr. Keller looked utterly confused when he saw that his bed bound patient and his bed were missing.

A nurse already came and got him," John said, praying that his sudden panic was unfounded.

Dr. Keller frowned. "I just cleared this slot in the schedule for him. No nurse or any other staff was asked to come get him…"

John shared a look with Mycroft, the elder Holmes' face calculating and calm. John's phone distracted him, making a noise that indicated a new text.

He glanced at the screen, horrified at the simple yet menacing phrase: "This'll be fun! J.M."


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft, sharing a brief look with his assistant, left the room with no further interaction with John or Dr. Keller, clicking away on his phone as he went.

John tried to slow his breathing. Tried not to think of a feverish, barely breathing Sherlock at Moriarty's mercy. "Dr. Keller, is there any way that I can look at the hospital's security cameras?" he asked, his voice steady with effort.

"No need," Anthea spoke up. "We're already checking that as well as the signal from the satellite sensor we tacked onto Mr. Holmes."

John blinked. He felt suddenly more at ease. "You-you have a sensor to track him with?"

"Apparently," Anthea replied, her eyes never leaving her phone.

Dr. Keller cleared his throat to get John's attention. "I'm going to have to phone the police," he said. John nodded, knowing that while it may be protocol, involving the police would be the metaphorical tip of the iceberg compared to what Mycroft would be capable of accomplishing.

John turned back to Anthea, who was now standing in front of the window, looking outside. "What can I do?" John asked her. "I want to do something to help…"

Anthea didn't turn to him, but John could see her smile in the reflection of the window. "Then don't worry."

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

"Wakey wakey!" said an awfully cheerful voice. Sherlock grunted in annoyance. The side of his face was cold. Head hurt. Ankles throbbing. Side hurt, but in a faraway sensation. The room was much too bright for his sensitive eyes. "Oh, come on. I'm being soooo nice to you," the voice said. "I even patched you up after our friend the nurse ripped out your IV and chest tube. The least you could do is look at me."

Sherlock tried not to look, hating the voice, hating the person. But he couldn't remember who it was or why he didn't like them, so he had to look.

Jim Moriarty towered over him. "Good morning, sunshine. Are you ready to play?"

Sherlock groaned into the floor, trying to determine where he was. He _knew_ that "nurse" had done something obnoxious to his IV…

"How come you're always sticking your nose into my affairs?" Moriarty was talking again. How he loathed that childish sing-song voice. If he could have forced out a word around his tightened chest, Sherlock would have given a terribly sarcastic response. As it was, he was having trouble just getting breaths out of his lungs lying on his stomach the way he was, and couldn't quite trust that anything he would try to say would be intelligible. Or in English. "I'm sure you won't be too surprised to know that your two friends from the hillside were working for me." Mycroft made a sympathetic noise and knelt next to his captive, tenderly touching a finger to Sherlock's head wound. Sherlock cringed and tried to turn his head, but everything was still a little too fuzzy from whatever drug he'd been put under.

Moriarty smirked and petted Sherlock's hair, mockingly. "I would have been sooo upset if they'd actually been good shots and killed you before I got a chance to. Don't worry. They've been dealt with for trying to go over my head."

Sherlock snarled at Moriarty, struggling to move his arms underneath him, wincing when he moved his sprained arm. He flopped unimpressively back onto the floor.

Moriarty chuckled. "It is nice to have your company, though. This way I know you won't interfere with my next little project…" From the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see Moriarty take out a slender pistol from his coat pocket. He was helpless to make a protest as Moriarty pressed the end of the pistol to Sherlock's bullet wound, grinding the solid metal into the gash, reopening it.

Sherlock shuddered and gasped out a pained cry, which fell into a strangled cough. His side was starting to hurt deeply again.

"I'm going to have so much fun, being your new playmate," said Moriarty. All the youthfulness and pep had gone from his voice, replaced with a deadly sincerity. He stood up, smacking Sherlock on the bum once before leaving him alone in the room.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Lestrade and Donovan arrived at the hospital to take statements from the staff and Dr. Watson. The security videos had mysteriously disappeared for the amount of time when Sherlock had gone missing, but John assured the police officers that they were in good hands. Anthea made herself scarce after a barrage of texts.

Lestrade sat down with John in Dr. Keller's private office. "What can you tell me about the nurse that came to get Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, preparing a small notebook.

John sighed, sinking into his chair. "He was kind of young…not too young, maybe thirty. Light hair. Tall, broad…" He shook his head. "I can't believe I didn't notice something was wrong…"

"What I don't understand," said Lestrade, "is how someone managed to take Sherlock out of this hospital without anyone noticing."

John shrugged. "Sherlock could do it. Sherlock's brother Mycroft could definitely do it if he wanted to."

Lestrade nodded. "Have you gotten anymore texts?"

"No, just the one," John answered. "And of course the number's blocked."

Lestrade fixed him with an intense stare. "I want you to keep me updated on everything that happens. Don't go off on your own. Understand?"

John nodded. "I'll do my best. I'm going to try to contact Mycroft now to see if he's got anything."

"All right, you do that. And report back to me when you know something," Lestrade said. "I'm going to go talk to Donovan and see what she's gotten out of the hospital staff."


	10. Chapter 10

John waited anxiously beside the elevator. He wondered at what Moriarty's game was this time. And, obviously it was a game, given the cheeky little message he had received.

He was only a little surprised when the elevator doors opened and Mycroft was standing inside. Sherlock's brother looked like he had been waiting on John in the elevator, as strange as that concept seemed.

"Got anything?" John asked, stepping into the lift with Mycroft.

Mycroft pressed the button for the ground floor lobby. "The security tapes didn't tell me much more than I already knew," he began.

"Which was?" John questioned.

"That Sherlock was taken out of the hospital. But we did get a few clear shots of the 'nurse' who left with him." Mycroft handed John a folder, which opened to a profile of the man John recognized. "Jackson Knowles. I have him triple coded for immediate capture." The elder Holmes grinned. "It shouldn't take too long to find him. And our little tracking device has started putting out a signal." Mycroft brandished his phone which showed a little map and a glowing red dot. "It's moving through the country…too slow for air travel, too off-road for a car, so most likely a train."

"So we're off to the train station it's headed for then?" John asked, as they stepped out of the elevator.

"Quite right."

/

Sherlock had lost consciousness at some point. When he woke up, the ground was rumbling underneath him and he guessed that he was on the floor of a large car, something like an SUV or a limousine. It was only a guess because he was still disoriented, and could only use his hearing and sense of touch, as he had been blindfolded. His arms were manacled behind him with a very strong device made out of some kind of metal. Moriarty must have known better than to use something as escapable as rope, like some others had tried in the past.

Sherlock coughed and tried rolling over, but a foot digging into his aching side stopped him. "Now now, Sherlock," said Moriarty, from somewhere above him. "We're going on a vacation…well, you are anyhow. But I won't spoil the surprise!"

Sherlock groaned. He managed to find his voice, and in English this time. "Where are we going?"

Moriarty tutted. Sherlock could just imagine him waggling his index finger in the air. "I just said I didn't want to ruin the surprise, Sherlock. Patience, my beloved." Moriarty draped something thick and soft over his head and back. A blanket perhaps. "Go to sleep so you won't be all cranky when we get there."

There was no chance that Moriarty could possibly think up a torture to rival simply having to listen to him prattle on and on.


	11. Chapter 11

John and Mycroft were casually sitting in the dining area at the Coventry station. It had been exciting for John to fly to the station via private helicopter. It was not at all like the helicopters he'd been in during the war. Mycroft's setup had a mini-bar and a radio playing classical music.

They made it to the station with a ten minute headstart on the train. Mycroft was rapping away on his phone's keyboard, while John sat nervously across from him. John suddenly realized, with unease, that he had neglected to phone or text Lestrade about the developments as he had promised.

After a few minutes, John came up with a question. "So, then what's our plan?"

Mycroft glanced up from his phone briefly. "Recover Sherlock and take his abductors into custody, of course," Mycroft answered.

"Yes, but…" John frowned at Mycroft's lack of concern. "By ourselves, I mean?"

Mycroft put his phone away then and smiled at John. "You and I are going to stay right here. Trust that it will be taken care of."

John blinked, feeling stupid. There did seem to be an awful lot of people in expensive suits just standing around the place, occasionally looking at their phones. John had just assumed them to be business people. Now he wasn't so sure.

Mycroft took his phone back out and pressed a single key. Nearly instantly, half of the suited people that had been milling around all flooded to the dropoff gate. God, it must have been fun to be Mycroft.

It was kind of surreal for John to sit there with Mycroft, sipping tea, while government operatives under Mycroft's command were storming a train for them. He kept his eyes on the exit, hoping to see Sherlock emerge at any moment, preferably in reasonably good shape.

Ten minutes passed and Mycroft's phone buzzed. Mycroft glanced at it while John watched him eagerly. "Oh, bother…" Mycroft mused. He put his phone away and looked up at John. "They found the device, but it was inside of an unmarked suitcase. Just a decoy, as I suspected."

"What? As you suspected? They didn't find Sherlock? Or Moriarty's thugs?" John gaped.

"I'm afraid not," Mycroft answered. He stood. "We'll just have to wait until we can get a hold of Jackson Knowles, and then hope that he bends under interrogation."

John stood defiantly. "I don't want to just wait for someone you may or may not get a hold of. I want to-" John's phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it.

"Thought we were on the train? Too bad, so sad. Sherlock says hi. JM"

/

Sherlock gasped for breath as he was tugged upright and out of the vehicle. The change in position was painful and sudden. Two sets of arms grabbing onto his shoulders were digging into his skin sorely. He was dragged across a lawn, staggering to his feet, despite his shabby ankles, to retain some semblance of dignity. He could hear the sounds of Moriarty, practically skipping behind him.

Sherlock yanked against the two men holding him, barely getting a grunt out of either of them for his efforts. "What is your plan, Jim?" he asked, cursing the black cloth over his eyes. "Why did you-" He was cut off by a vicious bout of coughing which left him slumped and dragged once again.

"Can you just hold your horses, there Sherlock?" Moriarty teased. "You're so impatient!"

Sherlock would have replied, but he was wheezing and trying to ride out the terrible pain in his side brought on by his latest coughing fit. God, what had they said at the hospital? Kidney infection? It felt as if the organ was trying to hollow out his side and escape from his body!

Sherlock listened to the creak of an old door and felt his feet dragged down a flight of stairs. At the bottom, the room smelled damp, moldy, and unclean. Some kind of cellar, most likely. He cold feel the coldness of the concrete floor easily against his bare legs. It was the first time that he noticed he was still wearing the hospital robe, and thankfully, his underwear.

He was dropped disgracefully onto the floor, smashing his face into the concrete without the use of his arms to catch himself. Muttering a curse against Moriarty's particular family members, he shifted onto his left side to ease the pain of his right. On second thought, he shifted back to the right. The pressure was better than the stale, curdling air.

He sensed a change in the tone of the people around him, guessing that Moriarty had given some kind of signal to the two bruisers. There was a metallic clank near the wall, and someone grabbed him by the collar, pulling him over to lean against the wall. Something cold and solid was clamped tightly around Sherlock's neck and he grunted with an effort.

Moriarty was practically Igiggling/I. "Sherlock, I wish I had a camera. You look just like an angry little puppy!"

Sherlock sneered as best he could behind the blindfold and tested the iron collar fastened around his neck. Attached by a chain to the wall. Splendid. Not only did it keep him in one place, it also prevented him from getting out any noise louder than a polite conversational murmur. Not good for breathing, as John would have said.

"I have to run, Sherlock," said Moriarty cheerily. "I have to see if my project is going as planned! I'm sooo excited." Sherlock sighed, frustrated. "But I want to be a good host, so I'll leave you something to do while I'm gone."

Materials were exchanged, sounds like cloth and tools, liquids and glass were moved closer to the wall. With a tiny CHINK something heavy was clipped onto the chain going to Sherlock's neck.

Moriarty's hands were on Sherlock's face, steadying him. He removed the blindfold. Sherlock tried shaking free, but Moriarty was surprisingly strong. "Do you see that?" Moriarty wondered dangerously, his eyes gesturing to Sherlock's right.

Sherlock humored him and looked at the flotsam of equipment leaning against the wall. Some kind of IED, he guessed, considering the wires and vile-smelling liquid.

"That," said Moriarty, pointing at the makeshift bomb, "is attached to this level," here he gently flicked the wire at the back of Sherlock's neck. "Basically, my darling, if you put too much stress on the chain around your neck, you're going to blow yourself up." He paused in fake thoughtfulness, gazing up at the ceiling. "Or is it dropping the tension that blows you up…I can never remember these little details. Just stay as still as you can, ok?"

Moriarty rose to his feet. His thugs went up the stairs ahead of him. "Goodbye, Sherlock. I'll come back for you later-if you're still here." Moriarty smiled a big, infuriating smile. "Later, babe." Then he dropped the smile and glared at Sherlock derisively before turning to leave.

/

A/N: Hey! I'm so glad that you're all enjoying this story! But, I now need to ask a favor. ^^ Since, I'm not English first and definitely not a Britain, I need a beta for this story, and possibly many of my other Sherlock stories. I need someone who can help me with mechanics, and also Brit-pick, as I have shamefully failed at my conception of English dialogue.

Please help? -Puppy sad face-


	12. Chapter 12

Marill: Sorry about the long wait! I blame technical difficulties -.-0

Thanks to my new betas!

/

Mycroft excused himself back to his helicopter, leaving John to find his own way back to London. Apparently whatever Mycroft planned to do next, he couldn't afford to have John interfering or knowing the details.

John chartered a black cab to take him home. He was oblivious to the passing scenery that blurred by out the window. What did Moriarty want with Sherlock? Was Sherlock still alive? Comatose? Struggling to breathe and thrashing in pain from his kidney infection and other numerous injuries? These questions assaulted John's consciousness without relent.

Worst of all, he felt completely useless. Mycroft wasn't letting him in on his plans, not that he would be much help, and Lestrade was off on his own investigation, not that Scotland Yard knew what it was trying to accomplish. Just sitting and waiting was misery to John. He was a man of combat, of action and movement. He wanted to help.

About halfway back to London, John's phone rang obnoxiously in his pocket. His heart pounded violently when he saw Sherlock's number on his caller ID. Had Sherlock escaped? Found a way to call him?

"Sherlock?" John said quietly, breathlessly.

There were only a few sounds of breathing on the other end of the line for a few moments before the caller finally answered. "No, it's Jim. Just using Sherlock's phone here." Moriarty. The bastard. "Don't get too excited though, I already disabled the GPS sensor. I'm funny that way." A dark chuckle.

"Where's Sherlock?" John managed to say. "I want to talk to him." He knew he sounded like a bad police negotiator on TV, but he felt a physical need to hear Sherlock's voice, to know that he was hanging on, that he was still alive.

Moriarty made a noise of contemplation. "He's not here. I had some big, important things to take care of. But don't worry; your friend has something to keep himself occupied."

John fought the urge to throttle his phone. He assured himself that he'd be able to throttle Moriarty before long. "What did you do to him?" John seethed, keeping his voice lowered. "If you've hurt him-"

Moriarty interrupted the threat. "I didn't lay a hand on him. I _like_ Sherlock, you know? I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to him." There was a tangible pause. "But if something does, it'll be his own fault." John inhaled deeply, trying to tone down his fury. "I hope you'll like what happens next, John-John," said Moriarty. "I think you, and especially your friend Mycroft, will get a big kick out of it. Adieu!"

The phone went silent. John fired off a text to Mycroft. "Moriarty has something big about to go down. Mentioned your name. Be careful. JW."

A few seconds later, a text came back. "Duly noted. We've found J. Knowles. I'll arrange to pick you up from Baker Street in an hour. MH."

John put his phone away and sighed. If Jackson Knowles knew where Sherlock was, John could think of quite a few ways to make him talk.

/

Sherlock was in a dilemma. Aside from being abducted, unable to scream, and attached to a volatile and sense-activated bomb, he was quite ill, and severely injured. He was going to lose consciousness at some point, and the resulting pitch of his body could set off the IED.

His lungs burned with effort as he desperately coughed around the thick metal collar. He struggled to keep the chain attached to him still, not wanting to jar it unnecessarily.

Sherlock gazed at the IED from the corner of his eye. He knew ways to deactivate a typical bomb, even some atypical ones, but there was no way of knowing how Moriarty had rigged it. Detaching a wire that would normally remove the danger of explosion could trigger it instead.

He began to sweat, tension and pain building up in his chest. His side was a source of fever and anguish. He could feel it throbbing and stinging with every breath he managed to take in. His head was aching as well, dried blood caking the side of his face down to his ear.

Five minutes and he was going to lose consciousness altogether.

/

A sleek, black car pulled up to the curb at Baker Street, as soon as Watson stepped off the landing. The driver got out and opened the back down for John, who slid inside next to Anthea. She was texting as always, but dressed in a very bright, summery dress.

John considered this and asked, "So what were you doing when you got called in to work?"

Anthea spared him a sidelong glance. "It's complicated," was her only comment.

/

Mycroft materialized in a corridor of the plain-looking office building that John was directed to. "I'm glad you were able to make it here so quickly," said Mycroft amiably, as he led John toward a door at the end of the hall.

"Right," said John, "what am I doing here?"

Mycroft paused, his hand on the door. He turned to John and smiled an eerie, frightening grin. "I thought you might enjoy being a part of this," he said. He opened the door with a flourish. A single man occupied the room, held fast to a chair by handcuffs. It was the nurse that John recalled. "Mr. Knowles, it's so great to see you," said Mycroft, pulling a small, rectangular object out of his pocket.

/

Marill: It's about to be Mycroft-BAMF up in here!


	13. Chapter 13

"Let's not mince words, Mr. Knowles," said Mycroft. He toyed with the black object in his hand. "We have definitive proof that you transferred my brother out of the hospital." Mycroft pressed a button on the object, pulling up a projection screen on the wall across from Knowles. A slideshow of sorts began to flash on the screen, showing grainy still shots of Sherlock and Knowles at various stages of leaving the hospital. Sherlock's eyes were closed in nearly all the photographs. The last photo showed an empty hospital bed standing in front of the parking deck elevators.

Knowles tugged against the handcuffs binding him and scoffed. "I work at the hospital. I was taking that patient for a procedure and another doctor took him off my hands. It's not my fault whatever happened to him after that."

Mycroft smiled amiably and walked behind Knowles. "Mr. Knowles, have you ever heard of the American psychologist Martin Seligman and his learned helplessness experiments?" Knowles shook his head nervously. "You've at least heard of Dr. Pavlov, then?" Knowles nodded once and Mycroft pushed the black object against his captive's neck, pressing a button that gave him a jolt of electricity.

Knowles jumped and yelped. "Shit, man, what the hell!"

John, leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room, couldn't help but admire Mycroft's strategy.

Mycroft smirked. "I've combined Dr. Pavlov's and Mr. Seligman's experiments to work like this: if you lie to me, I'll shock you. If I shock you enough, you'll stop lying."

Knowles struggled against his bonds. "You can't do this! This isn't right! I'll have you arrested!"

Mycroft laughed. "You don't think that any officer in his right mind would arrest Parliament's most trusted advisor-just for interrogating a known kidnapper, do you?"

John grinned as Knowles caught his eye with a frantic look. It looked as though John wouldn't have to make any threats; Mycroft had it handled.

/

Every breath was a struggle for Sherlock. He could feel his pulse racing against the unforgiving metal collar he wore; his circulation was dangerously close to being cut off. There was so much congestion in his lungs that needed coughing to break it up, but Sherlock couldn't risk such an endeavor that might leave him gasping and writhing and pulling at the chain attached to the explosives.

Two wires were attached to the chain. Both of them black, of course. No help there. They dangled in such a way that he could reach them with his fingertips. If only he knew which one was safe to pull, he could definitely do the job.

His vision was dimming. The pain in his side started to fade away. His eyelid twitched and he knew that he was about to lose consciousness. His own words suddenly came back to mock him, _It's a fifty-fifty chance_.

Sherlock would have swallowed the lump in his throat if he'd been able. Instead, he fingered the two wires behind his back and separated one from the other. He had to risk it. He wasn't going to be able to stay upright for much longer. Better to take a chance than go with the sure thing that would kill him.

He held his breath and tugged sharply on one of the thin wires.


	14. Chapter 14

Mycroft's Mercedes sped off toward Moriarty's dungeon. Knowles had been easy enough to break, after Mycroft threatened to have him "relocated." Anthea sat between Mycroft and John in the car, both Anthea and Mycroft clicking away on their phones for all their worth.

"What if it's a decoy?" John asked, worriedly. "Or a trap?"

Mycroft didn't look up. "Then we shall find out soon enough."

"What about Moriarty's plan?" John added. "He could be about to go on a wild killing binge!"

Mycroft's lip twitched. "Yes, let's see what you're up to, Mr. Moriarty…" he mused, flickering his thumbs over his phone screen. "Another bomb? How tedious."

"What?" John demanded, leaning over Anthea impolitely. "How do you know that? Do you have Moriarty bugged too?"

Mycroft chuckled. "No, no. I had one of my best runners start looking into the matter about eight hours ago."

"Eight hours-" John stammered, darting a look at his watch. "I only told you about it four hours ago!"

"At any rate," Mycroft continued, unbidden, "consider that little problem resolved. Now we just have to pick up Sherlock, and then I can finally go home and have dinner."

John blinked. "Is that all you can think about? Sherlock could be dead right now, or close to it at least. No wonder he keeps on about your 'diet', which I'm starting to believe is just a fantasy of yours."

Anthea snorted softly.

Mycroft sighed and turned away.

/

The house was a typical suburban home, set across the backdrop of a lake. When John and Mycroft arrived, there were already two cars and a black van parked in front of the house.

"Who is all that?" John said, staring at the ten people in black suits milling about.

"Bomb squad," said Mycroft.

"What? A bomb? How do you know it's going to be a bomb?" John asked, now feeling even more nervous.

"Moriarty has a certain propensity toward such a weapon, wouldn't you say?" Mycroft returned.

After a few minutes of organization on Mycroft's part, he, John and four squad members headed into the cellar beneath the house. Flashlights were turned on until Mycroft found the light switch dangling from the ceiling. The sight before him made John gasp.

Sherlock was lying on his side, his brow creased in pain. His head wound had started bleeding again, and he was panting for breath. He was ashen, and sweat-soaked. Most disturbing was the steel collar going around his throat attached to what John identified as an IED, and a rather volatile one at that.

"God…" John whispered, taking an unconscious step forward.

Mycroft halted him, pushing his umbrella across John's chest. The bomb squad moved in, hefting tools and first aid materials. They moved carefully, checking different connections and wires. A few agonizingly slow minutes passed by before the bomb squad leader turned back with a barely concealed relief on her face.

"Mr. Holmes, he managed to unhook the trigger wire," she said. "It's back to a code 2."

Before John could ask what that meant, Mycroft had crossed the room and was kneeling beside Sherlock, placing his hands gently on his brother's face. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" he said, softly.

John was beside them in three seconds, checking Sherlock's pulse and temperature by hand. Meanwhile, Mycroft unhooked the restrictive collar around his brother's neck and began working at the manacles binding him.

With a shaky breath, John leaned back and dropped to his backside against the wall. "We need to get an ambulance here quickly," he said, somberly.


	15. Chapter 15

As soon as the words came out of John's mouth, a movement on the staircase caught his eye, and he saw two paramedics entering the cellar. He stared at Mycroft, mouth agape.

"Well, of course, I arranged for the paramedics to meet us here," Mycroft said. He went to greet the paramedic couple before they could reach Sherlock. "I want him en route to the hospital in less than three minutes, is that clear?" Mycroft demanded, shocking the paramedics into quick action.

Again, before they could reach Sherlock, they were interrupted. "Fuck, no." John. Standing in front of Sherlock, his arms crossed in protest.

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, with a look like he thought John had finally snapped from exhaustion and concern. "John," he said, in his most negotiating voice, "it's all right. They're trained professionals, and they do work for the hospital. I have background checks to prove it." The paramedics exchanged a wary glance.

John stared Mycroft down. "_They_ are fine. _They_ are not what I am worried about." He paused for emphasis. "But the only place they are taking Sherlock is back to Baker Street with me."

Mycroft evaluated John's logic and emotions for a few moments. Finally he agreed, rationalizing that he could simply send over one of his assistants to help out, and plant some surveillance devices.

/

An hour later, Mycroft, his assistant and John had brought Sherlock back to Baker Street. They laid him in his own bed, propped up against all the pillows that he and John had between them, with the hope that it would be easier for him to breathe. They had removed the tattered hospital robe and binned it, sufficing to cover Sherlock up with a few blankets. John quietly bound Sherlock's gunshot wound with gauze and bandages. Both Sherlock's ankles were elevated with a cylindrical throw pillow, and he seemed to be resting in a semi-unconscious state, flickering eyelids at loud noises occasionally.

Mycroft spoke privately with Anthea and procured two bottles of pills from her, which he handed over to John. "These were on his prescription, John. One is for the kidney infection-"

"-and the other is for the pneumonia," John finished, after reading the labels. He sat himself in a chair at Sherlock's bedside. "Thank you, Mycroft. I really appreciate your help on this one."

Mycroft laughed. "Yes, I suppose you're welcome John, although he is my brother," he said. "If anything abnormal happens, or if you need anything, just let me know." Then Mycroft and Anthea were gone.

John took a deep sigh, rolling the pill bottles between his hands. He watched Sherlock's hitching chest as he rasped in breaths. Glanced over his face at all the bruises and cuts that were somehow tamer outside of the hospital, and outside of Moriarty's cellar.

He left the room briefly to fill a glass full of water and brought it back into Sherlock's bedroom. "Sherlock," he said a little forcefully, "I hate to do this, but I'm gonna have to wake you up and get you to take these pills, all right?"

Sherlock twitched indifferently. John shook him by the shoulder a few times, before Sherlock finally gasped and opened his eyes drowsily. He made an incoherent sound of confusion and John smiled at him. "You've gotta take some antibiotics, Sherlock," John insisted, showing him the two pills he had taken out. "Then I'll let you rest for a while."

Sherlock's eyes were falling shut again, but John persisted, shaking him firmly. "Open up, Sherlock," John implored him.

Sherlock groaned but obliged. John dropped the pills onto Sherlock's tongue and lifted the water to his mouth. Sherlock downed the entire glass, suddenly realizing his great thirst. Once John had put the glass on the side table, Sherlock leaned fully into his pillows, looking at John restlessly.

"Take a nap, Sherlock," John asserted. "I'm serious. I'll wake you in eight hours for some more pills and maybe something to eat." John gently tucked the blankets up around Sherlock's neck and smoothed them down across his chest and stomach. Sherlock made a token grunt of annoyance, but was too weak to really care. When John left, he was sleeping soundly.

/

Two and a half days later, John Watson found himself playing Sherlock's personal butler, fetching things from the kitchen and the closet for Sherlock's entertainment and use.

He walked upstairs with a slightly burnt cheese toastie and blinked in disbelief at Sherlock. "Why do you have my phone?" John asked, unconsciously patting at his back pocket where he usually kept it.

Sherlock smirked, although he kept his eyes on John's phone screen. "I pick pocketed it," he explained. "You didn't really think that I still needed your help sitting up, did you?"

John frowned and set the plated sandwich at Sherlock's table. "How did you figure out my password, Sherlock?" he wanted to know.

Sherlock coughed and then cleared his throat. "Antidisestablishmentarianist," he remarked. "I figured it out by the sheer number of characters that the set password contained. Not too many straightforward words that are that long, you know."

John shook his head. "How did you know that it wasn't a phrase or a sentence?"

"You don't trust your memory enough to recall a whole sentence for a password," Sherlock replied. "No, I knew it had to be a word."

"JOHN!" cried Mrs. Hudson from the sitting room. John exchanged a look with Sherlock before darting out into the shared room to see what was the matter. He came to a sudden stop as soon as he entered the room. "Oh my god…"

/

Five minutes later, Sherlock was getting a little concerned, but couldn't do much about it except yell at John to tell him what was happening. John came back, with a ridiculous grin on his face.

Sherlock groaned. "What now?"

"Bring it in here," John called out behind him.

Sherlock raised a brow in confusion before several delivery men started to enter the room, carrying flowers, baskets of muffins, fruit, and overstuffed animals. Sherlock just sat there in stunned exasperation. When they were all finished, the gifts nearly blanketed the entire floor of Sherlock's bedroom.

John occupied a tiny square that wasn't covered in gifts. "It's from-"

"Mycroft," Sherlock finished for him, disgusted.

"Want me to read the card?" John asked, barely containing that same absurd grin. Sherlock just looked at him. John went ahead and opened a small envelope and cleared his throat before reading. "My dearest brother, I do hope that you will take this as a reminder to be more careful. Eat some fruit, let John have some muffins, and think of me especially when you embrace the teddy bears."

Sherlock glared at John as if he were responsible for this particular humiliation. "Get rid of the stuffed toys," he ordered.

John sobered slightly. "Why? Do you think he's got them bugged or something?"

"I don't care. Just get them away from my bed."

/

Marill: WAAAAAAAAAAAAA! I'm done! This story took me all kinds of crazy directions, which I wasn't expecting, which I kind of love about it! Hehe!

Love, everyone, love!


End file.
